


My part of the deal

by ttired



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M, and as with all my attempts at fluff, and spends too much time describing Persian carpets, instagram abuse, keeping ya fwb company over Christmas like ya do, mentions of Pierre's relationship with Cate, this could really be renamed when lonely met needy but tbh, this is actually probably sad as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: It occurs to Pierre, in a startling flash of brilliant hindsight Stoffel might not have actually been, strictly speaking, serious in his offer when he’d typedif you’re *that* lonely on Christmas Eve, I can probably keep you better company than that guy-- and followed it with a kissing emoji -- when Pierre had posted a picture of himself pouting in a ugly Christmas sweater trying to kiss his own reflection while holding up a sprig of mistletoe.This is neither a Miami vacation, nor Pierre crashing at Stoff’s Monaco flat, nor the two of them tooling around at the RBR timeshare apartments in Milton Keynes.Pierre finds himself hopelessly, awkwardly at a loss for an explanation, and gets out: “God no, I drove, I wasn’t that far away -- it was on my way, anyway,” which apart from being a total lie just feels wrong to say, Roeselare isn’t on Pierre’s way to fucking anywhere. The car he's parked in the driveway is a rental; Stoffel knows perfectly well Pierre owns an Evoque, although beyond just raising his eyebrows slightly, Stoff very kindly doesn’t call him out on his bullshit point-blank.





	My part of the deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lecastellet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecastellet/gifts).



> To my poor unsuspecting recipient: thank you for giving me the excuse to explore the truly weirdly affectionate relationship these two idiot boys have. It was fun, even if I did have to edit it carefully so that it didn't wind up turning into a home interiors catalog instead of a story. I sincerely hope beyond hope that you get something out of the experience of reading it too, although regardless, happy holidays! Here's the fic!
> 
> Title from Frank Ocean's "White Ferrari," specifically the lines:
> 
> _I care for you still and I will forever  
>  That was my part of the deal, honest_
> 
> Warnings etc at the end as per usual.

It’s Stoffel, in a robe and his face adorned with pillow-marks, who opens the door when Pierre knocks just before 8am on Christmas Eve; in the absence of anything that looked like a proper doorbell on the vast and imposing set of carved double-doors that are quite obviously the house’s main entrance, Pierre ran the risk of slinking around the side to the small side door with an illuminated lamp overhead, still casting shadows in the early December morning. There’s a doorbell, and there’s clearly an occupant, and Stoffel himself looks a cross between dazed and blank, blinking almost mulishly at Pierre when he grins out of nervous habit and half-waves at the Belgian.  
  
“You’re here?” Stoffel says, after a second, in his oddly accented English which makes Pierre wonder if he actually means the declaration to be a question or if his English is just rusty from the off-season. And then again, in French shortly after: “You actually came? Wait -- did you fly in? I wrote that comment on your Insta post yesterday afternoon.”  
  
It occurs to Pierre, in a startling flash of brilliant hindsight Stoffel might not have actually been strictly speaking serious in his offer when he’d typed _If you’re *that* lonely on Christmas Eve, I can probably keep you better company than that guy_ \-- and followed it with a kissing emoji -- when Pierre had posted a picture of himself pouting in a ugly Christmas sweater trying to kiss his own reflection while holding up a sprig of mistletoe.  
  
The two of them have been close the last handful of years, sure, but almost strictly in-season or in Monaco or on vacation together; Pierre knows Stoffel’s parent’s address in Roeselare mostly because it’s impossible to miss -- his father hashed out an agreement with the parks service three years ago as the caretaker of this old historical register mansion in the largest of the city’s parks, which as Pierre understands it means essentially free rent in a million Euro plus mansion so long as Stoffel’s dad, an architect, keeps everything in working order. He remembers how annoyed Stoffel was at the time, finding the place too full of history that didn’t belong to him or his family, although like Stoffel does, he stopped talking about it all together pretty shortly thereafter.  
  
This is neither a Miami vacation, nor Pierre crashing at Stoff’s Monaco flat, nor the two of them tooling around at the RBR timeshare apartments in Milton Keynes.  
  
Pierre finds himself hopelessly, awkwardly at a loss for an explanation, and gets out: “God no, I drove, I wasn’t that far away -- it was on my way, anyway,” which apart from being a total lie just feels wrong to say, Roeselare isn’t on Pierre’s way to fucking anywhere. The car he's parked in the driveway is a rental; Stoffel knows perfectly well Pierre owns an Evoque, although beyond just raising his eyebrows slightly, Stoff very kindly doesn’t call him out on his bullshit point-blank.  
  
Pierre feels called out on his falsehood regardless, and starts talking before he even knows entirely what he’s saying. “Look, it’s fine if you have plans, I probably should’ve called to make sure you were OK with me coming -- but since I woke you up, let me take you to breakfast for the trouble.”  
  
Pierre grins as disarmingly as he can manage, and it gets a half-hearted attempt at the same in return from Stoffel, who sighs and leans his forehead against the door frame for a minute, a stark breeze sweeping in from the trees and visibly shuffling the fabric of Stoffel’s robe. Despite being packed into one of his heftier winter jackets, Pierre can feel himself breaking out into goosebumps in sympathy.  
  
“Alright,” Stoffel says suddenly, making eye contact with Pierre. “Sure, but you should come in while I change. You know where you want to go?”  
  
He walks back inside and opens the door wider in an invitation for Pierre to follow, and Pierre does, shutting it behind them both and then immediately toeing off his boots once he realizes Stoffel’s wandering around barefoot across the black and white patterned tile.  
  
“Not -- uh, not really? Although I could check OpenTable really quickly --”  
  
Stoffel cuts him off with a snort. “It’s not really the kind of town where you need to make reservations for a decent breakfast; you want good eggs, a patisserie, or something closer to brunch?”  
  
Stoffel keeps moving as he talks, making a sharp left out of the entryway corridor into what Pierre immediately realizes is some sort of a kitchen, even if it doesn’t seem to have any kind of modern appliances apart from a storage freezer and two sets of washing machines and accompanying electric drier and rack set-ups. The Belgian walks over to a pile of honest-to-god firewood, gathers a few staves, and walks over to a green tiled and terracotta contraption with a heat-tape wrapped pipe running from it to the wall that Pierre assumes is a functioning stove. There’s a small cast iron trap that he opens and still-glowing ash pile coats the bottom of it.  
  
“Brunch maybe? Although you know me and my sweet-tooth,” Pierre says, equal parts amused and fascinated by the morning labor of Stoffel’s routine. “If the pastries are better, probably the patisserie.”  
  
Stoffel places the wood on the top of the tiles, crumples together a few pieces of newspaper from a pile in a conveniently placed wicker basket, and then uses a poke to clear away and distribute the ash inside the stove where Pierre can’t see. Stoffel lights the newspapers with a match, carefully stacks the softwood on top of the burning paper according to some memorized design, the blank faced and furrowed brow of Stoffel’s face an expression Pierre’s more familiar with seeing at the track versus the modern if impersonal space of his Monte Carlo flat. It takes a minute or so for Stoffel to finish what he’s doing, and Pierre has to stop himself from fidgeting -- he’s not actually impatient, but he’s still trying to shake off vestigial embarrassment and an abiding curiosity about this part of Stoffel’s private life, this weird pseudo-castle he’s been tasked to take care of, the largeness of the home as well as the emptiness of it.  
  
“My favorite place may not be open,” Stoffel says, eventually, wiping his hand across his forehead to combat the fresh prickle of sweat that cropped up from the heat of the open stove door. “But there’s a less established place that will have a few tables, more of a store than a restaurant, that I know is always open on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”  
  
“Do they have waffles?” Pierre asks, and laughs when Stoffel stops to flip him off. He pushes himself up again from where he was resting on a stool and walks over to Stoffel who’s washing his hands in the large basin sink. “You have ash on your face, here --”  
  
Pierre grabs a towel patterned with black current branches and runs it under the stream of tepid water and looks at Stoffel, pointing at the grey-black smear above his eyebrows and waits for his friend’s small nod before reaching up, holding his chin in one hand, and scrubbing at the offending dirt with the cloth. The skin of Stoffel’s jaw is prickly against his fingertips, apparently unshaven despite appearing otherwise. Stoffel keeps his eyes on Pierre’s face as Pierre scrubs at his forehead until the offending stripe is gone. The skin is a bit red from Pierre’s efforts, and he feels somewhat compelled to run a thumb over it once it’s clean in an effort to soothe.  
  
“All gone,” he says.  
  
“Thanks,” Stoffel says, still half-smiling. “You can toss the towel in the open washing machine.”  
  
Pierre does.  
  
“It’s not so comfortable to sit in here, but it’ll be the warmest part of the house for the next twenty minutes or so,” Stoffel says. “Or you can sit by the stairs, the chairs all have blankets on them.”  
  
“I’ll sit by the stairs,” Pierre says, and follows Stoffel out of the laundry and deeper into the house.  
  
The checkerboard gives way to immaculately kept wood flooring, the varnish wearing thin in places likely from age if nothing else, intricate Persian area rugs in deep maroon and mustard breaking up the floors into little islands, and by the start of the stairs, under a simple but carefully crafted chandelier, there’s a high-backed bergère in a faded cream upholstery and, as promised, what looks to be a quilt folded up on the seat. Stoffel stops by the banister and gestures at the chair.  
  
“I’ll be quick, just need to wash my face,” he says almost apologetically. “If you have to pee, there’s a toilet down the short hall to the right by the door to the garden summerhouse.”  
  
Pierre debates ribbing him gently about there being a summerhouse at all to begin with, but bites his lip and flips Stoffel a double thumbs-up instead, watching him climb the steps two at a time. He picks up the quilt, settles gingerly into the chair which creaks with an alarming amount of give, but settles with Pierre’s weight in a way that doesn’t feel rickety. He debates covering himself with the quilt just because it’s in his hands and because he can, but he’s not actually that cold with his jacket still on. He runs his hands over the swatches of fabric, a green fleur-de-lis pattern alternating with illustrations of snow-topped firs, which seem so appropriately wintery Pierre wonders if Stoffel or his parents keep an entire closet full of season-appropriate throws they actually bother to change out every three months or so.  
  
He fishes his phone out of his pocket after a minute and takes a picture of the quilt, runs through the pros and cons of posting it to Instagram before deciding against it, and instead saving it to his drafts folder. He opens up his text messages and shoots off a quick note to Cate, a simple _miss u_ with two crying emojis knowing that with the time difference in California and the intensive program she's doing over the winter break she’ll probably be asleep. There are a couple of unread texts that came in the last hour or so that he hasn’t looked at yet, one from Charles which is him, Arthur, and Enzo all in elf costumes mid-laugh with the simple text _happy christmas, from my familiy to yours <3_ which makes Pierre smile despite himself, the undeniable essence of joy in the photo hitting him like a thunderclap. He loses time like can do sometimes looking through his social media, and it’s almost startling when Stoffel comes clattering down the last set of stairs, fresh-faced in simple clothes and a long wool coat, eyebrows raised as he asks:  
  
“Ready to go?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Pierre responds, standing and pocketing his phone. He forgets the blanket in his lap until it’s already slipping, almost banging his head into Stoffel who bends to catch it lightning quick.  
  
“Speedy,” Pierre huffs out.  
  
“Sometimes,” Stoffel shrugs, winking, and tosses the blanket onto the chair, one hand around Pierre’s shoulders to herd him back out towards the door.  
  
Pierre hesitates in getting into the driver’s seat for a moment, looking up and across the body of the car to where Stoffel is waiting patiently for his door to unlock.  
  
“You want to drive since you know the way?” Pierre offers.  
  
He actually genuinely hates not driving, but it might be simpler and faster than Stoff attempting to give him directions. Stoffel actually full-on smiles at that.  
  
“You should see your face, it looks like you bit into a rotten apple.”  
  
Pierre rolls his eyes. “Stoff, I’m not grimacing that badly come on --”  
  
“It’s easy to find,” Stoffel says, pulling at the passenger door handle again for emphasis. “I’ll tell you how to get there.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Pierre says loftily, unlocking everything. “If we get lost, you’re paying for parking.”  
  
“We won’t get lost,” Stoffel soothes, sliding into the car next to him and pulling the door shut behind him.  
  
  
  
  
  
They find the shop-cum-restaurant as easily as Stoffel promises; Pierre’s actually mildly embarrassed, it can’t be more than four kilometers from the house, and if they were in the Principality, they almost certainly would’ve just walked.  
  
Unlike the Principality, however, street parking isn’t a particularly huge problem, although Stoffel assures him that’s actually unusual.  
  
“I guess not too many people out this early on Christmas Eve, lucky us,” Stoffel says, holding the door open for Pierre.  
  
The shop is stupidly quaint, like something out of a child’s picture book, and Pierre has his phone back out before he can help himself. There’s a model train set up to do laps around the entire store, complete with a holiday village for it to travel through that’s been spread out throughout the shelves and back counter, and the woman in an apron who’s setting up trays of baked goods looks up and acknowledges Pierre’s excited phone videography with the patience of someone who’s had to likely endure this all season.  
  
“Did you see the reindeer?” Stoffel asks when Pierre’s gone from taking pictures to excitedly tapping at the screen of his phone.  
  
Pierre looks up at that. “Reindeer?”  
  
Stoffel points to a corner past the rows of shelving in the back, and as Pierre peeks his head around the corner, he sees it -- a set of velveteen animatronic deer kicking their legs back and forth as they ascend languorously with a small mechanical groan and then descend, each deer equipped with a slightly different gesture -- be it a hoof kick or a shake of their antlers. The entire thing is wrapped up in lights and the set of deer is tasked with pulling along a carefully and intricately lacquered sleigh. It’s easily the most complicated and most delicate Christmas decoration Pierre’s ever seen in his entire life. He realizes he’s just been crouched staring at it when Stoffel drops down next to him and gently fingers the egg-sized presents piled high in the sleigh.  
  
“All through Advent,” he explains as Pierre looks at him. “They wrap up a small confection, a different one each day, and put them in here; for the kids, mostly, but they don’t mind if adults take them too.”  
  
“They do sweets here as well?” Pierre asks, taking a small square from the sleigh that’s been wrapped in an equally small section of silver wrapping paper and a sheer blue ribbon.  
  
“Yeah, petit fours type stuff, some chocolates as well,” Stoffel says, scratching at his nose. “But usually only in the winter. It’s the wife who makes them, takes too much time away from the baking for her to do it all year round.”  
  
Pierre looks at the box in his hand, turning it around, pressing his fingers along it’s delicately folded creases.  
  
“You can open it, you know,” Stoffel impresses, his voice rich with amusement.  
  
“Seems kind of a shame,” Pierre shrugs, not quite sure why he sounds a little guilty admitting it. “So much care went into it.”  
  
“Seems kind of a shame not to enjoy it, since that’s why they were put out here in the first place,” Stoffel encourages, before looking behind him at the counter. “Although I’m pretty sure if you tell Caroline you don’t want to ruin her decorations, she might just give you an extra of whatever’s in there with your breakfast.”  
  
“Right,” Pierre nods, taking the wrapped sweet with him. “We should order.”  
  
They walk back over and do just that, Pierre half stuttering his way through asking for assurance that it’s really OK to just take and eat part of the shop’s Christmas display, resulting in what seems like Stoffel having his ear chewed off in a frankly chastising flurry of Flemish Dutch. Stoffel shrugs defensively and rolls his eyes, and turns to Pierre to explain.  
  
“She’s mostly annoyed I made you feel guilty for taking one,” Stoffel sighs. “She thinks I didn’t do a good enough job assuring you they’re meant to be taken, opened, and eaten.”  
  
Pierre grins, and thanks the woman, paying for their breakfast. They get three pastries between them, and two cappuccinos -- both from a Nespresso machine which Pierre decides he won’t even joke about since it doesn’t really bother him, considering that’s what he himself drinks half the time at home.  
  
They don’t really talk much as they eat, but Pierre sneaks sidelong glances at Stoffel as he goes about parceling out his food, watching color and animation seep back into his face and body. He’d seemed more than just tired when Pierre had shown up, he’d seemed drained. Between the food and the overtly festive ambiance that doesn’t require Stoffel’s active participation, the man starts to soften. Pierre’s reminded of two years ago, early December, when he and Andrea and Antonio had dragged Stoffel off to the small holiday crafts market in Eze -- and Pierre’s insistence -- because he needed to do his shopping on time that year, and he’d known, somehow, that Stoffel wouldn’t mind being invited along.  
  
“You can stay if you want,” Stoffel says, almost apropos of nothing, not looking up at Pierre.  
  
“No, really, it’s fine,” Pierre says almost reflexively. “My cousin Margurite and her girlfriend live maybe fifty kilometers from here, I think they’ve invited me the last five years running because they know I don’t like spending Christmas with my parents.”  
  
It’s a half-truth, Pierre hasn’t spoken to Margurite in six months and they live closer to five hundred kilometers from Roeselare, but she had insisted three years ago that Pierre was welcome any holiday he wasn’t off “driving somewhere exotic and sipping champagne.”  
  
“You can go visit your family if you’d prefer,” Stoffel says after a minute and a long sip of his coffee. He knocks his knee sideways into Pierre’s leg under the small iron-wrought table and it’s enough to pull Pierre’s gaze up from his plate to Stoffel’s face. “But it’s a big house, I’m the only one home, it’s no trouble if you can put up with the idiosyncrasies.”  
  
Pierre knows Stoffel probably means the house, and the fact that making it livable is probably a full-time job, but Pierre also realizes it’s just more than that. He pushes the soft crumbs of his crumble cake into a small ball where they’ve landed on top of the plastic table cloth and knocks his knee in an answering push back into to Stoffel.  
  
“You probably don’t even have any food in the house,” Pierre accuses, mostly joking -- but he’s also seen how spartan Stoff keeps his Monegasque residence when he’s not getting meal service.  
  
“I have two ducks thawed out,” Stoffel replies, still not meeting Pierre’s gaze but half-smiling into his coffee now. “A ham; brussel sprouts from the garden, fresh figs, beluga caviar --”  
  
Pierre kicks him and Stoffel starts laughing, looks over.  
  
“As long as it’s not pizza, I swear to god,” Pierre says.  
  
“I won’t make you eat pizza on Christmas, I promise,” Stoffel says.  
  
“Then I’ll stay,” Pierre says, decides it as he speaks.  
  
“OK,” Stoffel says, smile sharpening slightly, and then stands, gathering their dishes.  
  
“OK,” Pierre parrots, watching him walk to the counter, hands delicate in the way they carry and then unload the hodgepodge china onto the counter; his fingers curl around the Advent present he still hasn’t unwrapped.  
  
His phone buzzes in his pocket, so he takes it out. It’s Cate, up far too early. _Are u spending xmas with Stoff?_ is what she’s sent. Pierre guesses she’s seen his stories feed. Stoffel still has his back turned towards Pierre, so Pierre takes a quick picture of Stoff in the shop and sends it to her, writing _yea_.  
  
_Good, I didn’t want u to be alone_ is the response he gets, and it twists something up inside of him in a way that’s both difficult to take and a relief at the same time. He’s stuck trying to think of what to say, when Stoffel starts herding him gently towards the door, hands warm and firm on his back.  
  
“Tell her I say hi and put the phone down,” Stoffel says by his ear, and Pierre looks up, feeling half annoyed, half caught-out.  
  
“C’mon,” Stoffel says advancing to the door, when Pierre stays slightly frozen, not sure what to say to either of them.  
  
He looks down at his screen, which lights up with another incoming message from Cate _im goin back to sleep but tell him I say hi, ttyl_ plus a pear emoji and then a heart, and it’s enough to make Pierre snort, and pocket his phone. Move his legs towards the door.  
  
Stoffel holds the door open for him with a curious look, and Pierre snatches his hand, weaves their fingers together as soon as he has the chance. He turns and walks backwards towards the car, the look Stoff giving him no less curious even if it’s a slight bit softer in tone, his hand gripping Pierre’s in return with a light squeeze.  
  
“Merry Christmas,” Pierre feels the need to say, even if it’s hard to get out suddenly.   
  
Stoffel runs his thumb across the back of Pierre’s hand. “Merry Christmas.”

Pierre stops walking and waits as Stoffel slows his own pace of movement down, still tethered to him by the hand, and then creeps forwards again, slowly seeping into Pierre’s space. Pierre brings their joined hands up to his lips so he can kiss the mirror of where Stoffel touched with his fingers, listening to Stoffel’s even breathing -- audible despite it’s ordinary cadence with their bodies so close together.

“I don’t have any mistletoe, but --” Pierre starts, before Stoffel cuts him off and presses their lips together, teeth clicking slightly as Pierre smiling into the embrace.

“We’ll improvise,” Stoff suggests, pulling back just enough to breathe but keeping close, hands carding through Pierre’s hair.

The wind picks up, making Pierre shift forwards in part to chase the warmth of Stoffel’s body. Light flurries start to tumble down, season appropriate and sparking along the exposed slices of Pierre’s skin cold and bright. He shivers, and ignores Stoff’s startled laughter at the change in weather, opts instead to bury his face in the Belgian’s neck, forgets his phone, his nerves, and just lets himself be held.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Erhm, some sketch family shit going on with Stoff tbh, although nothing that veers into frankly abusive territory? Heavily implied familial neglect though.
> 
> If I missed something, hmu in the comments and I'll add it.


End file.
